Act VII All Roads (Part 1)
*Special thanks to Melissa Corvinus for her assistance with historical research related to the Komnen dynasty.
one
In the distance came the boisterous sounds of carnival revelry, and Abraham listened intently. When the bell-ringer swung the thick rope, causing the workers' bells of St. Mark's Campanile to toll, he knew it was time for all the Jews to immediately board the ship and return to the Spikes. His grimaced fingers tightened their grip, and the tip of his charcoal pencil moved faster and faster.
Bianca remained in that position—blindfolded with a black cloth, holding a tattered steelyard in one hand and a long, straight tree branch propped up on the ground in the other. "Not done yet?" she couldn't help but shift her elbow. "Isn't it finished yet?!"
"Don't move!" Abraham grumbled angrily. "Oh dear, if you move, the 'sword' will bend again!"
Bianca twitched her lips and struck the same pose again. But the way she held the "sword" seemed different from before. Abraham thought, he might as well just make up a gesture and draw it. The exact pose of her hand didn't matter. Bianca had long, curly orange hair, fine and thick like a lion on a flag. The light of the setting sun shone through the back of that messy hair, gilding the girl and making her a solemn statue—that was what mattered. Abraham racked his brains, trying to figure out how to use his brush to capture the brilliant sunlight in her bright hair.
"Oh dear, I can't draw anymore!" As soon as he put down his charcoal pencil, Bianca immediately tore off the blindfold, threw down the scales and stick, and ran over. The two of them looked at the papyrus.
"You drew me like I'm naked! You're so lewd!" The girl blushed and slapped the boy's shoulder hard. "And didn't I tell you not to draw freckles on me?"
“This is realism, this is technique!” Abraham winced as he clutched his shoulder—though he wasn’t actually in that much pain. “How can I know the direction of the fabric, where the joints are, and what’s wrong with the freckles if I don’t draw the nude first!”
“Hmph, you’re right. You did a pretty good job drawing my freckles.” Bianca blushed. She snatched the painting and stared at it. “Even if the Goddess of Justice were naked, no one would think she was frivolous. When I went to Rome, I saw many sculptures there that weren’t dressed either.”
Her eyes shone with a bright adoration and appreciation, despite her sarcastic boasting—Abraham reveled in that gaze, feeling as if a warm, plump dove was nestled in his chest, ready to flutter away. Their shoulders were pressed tightly together, and even the rough edges of the cheap papyrus seemed gilded by the setting sun, as if it were a precious treasure in the governor's mansion.
"When can I visit your house again?" Abraham asked tentatively. "Those stained glass windows are so beautiful."
“Stained glass?” Bianca laughed proudly. “These days, glassmakers prefer to study transparent glass, and the lighter the color, the better.”
“What’s the point?” Abraham muttered. “Clear glass is used to make mirrors to reflect the ugly faces of nobles. Stained glass is much better; vases made from it are truly beautiful.”
“Who says it’s all used for mirrors? Transparent glass can be used to make vases too!” Bianca said, striking a pose of considerable knowledge. “My family’s glassmaker can carve flowers on it, and when you put it in the sun, it shines through like a Rus’ ice sculpture.”
"How is that possible? The glass shattered as soon as it was carved!"
"But there are flowers up there, I've seen them before!"
Suddenly, the sound of a door opening came from around the corner. "Your father is out!" Bianca immediately pushed the boy aside. "I'm leaving!"
Her fluffy curly hair swayed in the sunlight. The girl flew away like a startled bird.
Before Abraham could say goodbye, he saw the fluffy orange head disappear at the end of the small bridge and into the alley behind a stone house. He suddenly remembered that Bianca hadn't paid him his wages yet, and just as he was about to ask for them, he heard his father's stern voice behind him.
“Your hands are so dirty,” Mr. Moxey snapped at him. “You’ve been drawing again? Hand over your charcoal pencils.”
"I didn't!" Abraham hurriedly wiped his hand on his trousers, leaving dark streaks. "I accidentally touched the ropes on the dock!"
His father paid no attention to what he was saying, simply setting down his wooden medicine box and quickly and skillfully pulling several charcoal pencils from his son's robes. Abraham was furious; he reached out to snatch them—he had lost count of how many pencils had been taken from him like this—but he wasn't as strong as his father. Abraham was too young, too fragile. He watched as his father strode to the bridge and flung the pencils into the dark sea.
With a few splashes of water, the pen disappeared.
“I can’t imagine where you got the money to buy these things,” Mr. Moxey snapped. “A doctor raising a son who commits theft.”
"I don't!"
"You still dare to argue?"
A wave of painful melancholy washed over Abraham. Suddenly, tears welled in his eyes, and he was furious to the point of madness. He stood there, staring at his father with the most hateful and venomous look imaginable—but Mr. Moses pretended not to see it. He picked up the wooden medicine chest, grabbed Abraham's thin arm, and dragged him toward the gondola dock.
“Let your mother reason with you.” His two little braids swayed back and forth on his forehead. “It’s the Sabbath, I’m too lazy to talk to you anymore.”
The father and son only made it home as the suspension bridge rose. Nights on Longthorn Island are always quieter than on the main island.
“This is a dead end.” Madame Mosi spread the fish sauce into a piece of bread, then handed the plate to Abraham. “I’ve told you many times, Abraham. Your best option is to stay in Venice and become a doctor, just like your father.”
But I've already earned three months' worth of money, enough even to buy a ticket to Constantinople, Abraham thought. However, he didn't mention it. "I don't intend to give up being a doctor," he said, taking a bite of his bread. "Can't a doctor paint?"
His sister was sitting nearby, crying for some reason—Mrs. Moxie had to get up from her seat, heavily pregnant, and hobble around to her, holding onto the edge of the table. “Good heavens, Judith, what’s wrong now?” she sighed, picking up the child. “Don’t cry, sweetie. Mommy will pick out the beans you don’t like, okay?”
Judith wiped away her tears, and her sobs immediately subsided. Abraham wouldn't even glance at her. He thought, "What a child, still at the age where a mother can easily soothe her with a few words. How childish." Then he thought, "My mother and I haven't finished talking yet."
“I’m actually quite good at drawing.” He chewed on the cold fish in his mouth. “Really.”
“Is that so?” Mrs. Moxi patted Judith’s back gently. “Perhaps in the future, you can ask the island’s meeting hall to let you draw something.”
The synagogue? Abraham thought, I have no interest in painting those Old Testament stories. Why should I have to beg them? "I'm not going," he said, putting down his bread. "Do I have to beg others to have anything to paint? I have my own things to paint!"
His mother looked at him with surprise, her eyes tired and puzzled. "But how will you live, Abraham?" she asked, picking at the beans in Judith's plate. "People need to eat to survive. You should spend your time learning from your father on his house calls, so you can earn more money and have time to paint what you want. This won't make a living; it will only squander your money."
Abraham finally lowered his head. He thought his mother was right. But he still glared angrily at his knees, as if resenting his lack of talent. "I'm sorry, Mother," he said, not having eaten enough, and had to pick up the half-eaten fish bread from his plate again—leftovers at home meant a scolding from his father. "...I will read the Hippocratic Oath again," he muttered.
“Look at your face, you look so pale!” Mrs. Moxie put Judith down and busily stroked her son’s hand. “I don’t care whether you paint or become a doctor, Abraham. I just want you to suffer less, be blessed by God, and live a happy life. I’m only saying this because I care about you.” She touched Abraham’s cheek—her son had grown taller than her and was a fine young man. “Don’t take it to heart.”
Abraham wanted to say something, but he didn't know whether to refute or agree with his mother. Fortunately, his mother immediately shuffled back to her seat and ignored him.
As he swallowed his bread, he glanced sideways at the sea outside the window, his mind racing with countless thoughts. The Moshi family lived in a good location, close to the docks, making travel convenient, though the floor was a bit high—Abraham could see from his window the densely packed houses of the island, their square shapes disappearing into the darkness. Venice's waterways were free of wheels and hooves, utterly silent; even the noisy seagulls and pigeons of the day had returned to their nests to rest, leaving only the calm water flowing quietly.
Suddenly, a series of urgent knocks broke the tranquility of dinner time.
Who dared to visit on the night of the Sabbath? Mr. Moxie, who was engrossed in his books in his study, clicked his tongue, rose with annoyance, and rushed to the door, but quickly suppressed his irritation before opening it—standing at the door was a fat old man, followed by a thin judge in a black robe. The candlelight illuminated their elongated, serious faces—neither of them were Jewish; they had come from the island by private boat.
“Mr. Murano, what brings you here in person?” Mr. Mosi asked with surprise and respect. “I’m so sorry, I have to wait until after the Sabbath to make an appointment.”
Mr. Murano seemed to be suppressing his anger. His breathing made every inch of his fat tremble slightly, and his eyes were wide open like the winged lion of St. Mark's Square. He didn't say a word.
“No. It’s something else.” The gaunt judge stepped forward. “Please have your son, Abraham Moshe, board the ship immediately and come with us.”
Abraham? Mr. Moshi turned to look for his son. The boy, whose name had been called, looked up and saw over his father's shoulder Mr. Murano's half-bald head. The old man had thick orange hair behind his ears and on his chin, looking like a lion's mane—he immediately understood what was going on and stared in disbelief. "...I'm not going!" he jumped up from his chair and ran into the house. "They're trying to harm me!"
“Damn brat!” The obese Mr. Murano finally squeezed through the narrow doorway, knocking Mr. Mosi to the ground. The floorboards thudded. “I should have you castrated!”
“I didn’t!” Abraham screamed as he was grabbed by the clothes. “I’m innocent!”
"Mr. Murano, let him go!" The judge in black robes helped Mr. Mosi, who had fallen to the ground, to his feet. "Why did you call me here? There's a pregnant woman here!"
Abraham was about to thank the fair judge, but then he added...
“Abraham Moshe, you must come aboard with us.” The thin judge looked at him with the same coldness. “Otherwise, this matter will be discussed at the Governor’s House tomorrow. That will be much more serious.”
"I said that because I'm thinking of you."
Abraham said goodbye to his mother by the stairs—his mother and Judith had intended to see them off to the dock downstairs, but the pregnant woman and the child were not mobile enough, and it would take too much effort to go up the stairs.
“Go on, and come back soon,” Mrs. Moxie said wearily. “Your sister and I will wait for you here.”
This was the first time the law-abiding and cautious father and son had ridden a gondola at night. The Venetian sea was pitch black at night, so still it seemed to drown the soul. Abraham sat in the middle, held tightly by his father, whose eagle-claw-like fingers pinched his arm until it ached. He looked down at the bright reflection of the lone lamp at the bow of the gondola on the water, clumps of light that looked like mercury spilled and churned. How could he draw this? He thought he could use charcoal to make the sea even darker, to make the shimmering silver light even brighter—thinking about this eased his restlessness and made his breathing easier.
The gondolier led them toward the Doge's Palace and St. Mark's Square. Being accompanied there by a judge in the dead of night was quite unnerving—but the boat passed by and crossed the Slavic embankment. They were heading to Monsieur Murano's glass factory. Everyone bowed their heads as they crossed a low stone bridge. The boat entered a narrow waterway and docked at the glass factory. The four men groped their way up the steps in the dark. The gondolier, without a word, rowed his long oar away.
Mr. Murano's mansion was densely packed next to the glass factory—or rather, half of his residence was melted down within the factory. The factory was quiet in the dead of night, devoid of craftsmen, except for one narrow room lit by a lamp. Abraham and his father were led inside and found it packed with people, young and old, men and women—most of them sporting orange, curly hair, making the small room resemble a cramped lion's cage. Some wept, some paced anxiously, some glared angrily at the Moshir father and son as they entered, and some immediately surrounded the judge, clutching his sleeves and pouring out their grievances.
"They're here." Mr. Murano locked the door with his key. "Has the doctor arrived?"
A doctor? Abraham thought, what do I need a doctor for? Wasn't his father a doctor? But soon he saw a bearded Latin doctor leave the crowd and go out through the back door.
“Jewish boy, come here.” A strong, orange-haired man he didn’t recognize roughly snatched him from his father’s arms—those large hands were much stronger than Mr. Mosy’s, squeezing his arm even harder than before. “Listen. The judge is here, you can’t lie.” He roared, his voice gruff. “You must answer my questions. If you try anything funny, we’ll be at the governor’s mansion first thing tomorrow morning. And it won’t just be the Muranos who will judge you there. Understand?”
Abraham thought that he had never done anything wrong, so he didn't need to lie. So he nodded stubbornly and obediently.
The group of orange-haired people were passing something along. It moved slowly, crept through the hands of women, old women, youths, and adults, towards Abraham as he crept into the crowd. Upon seeing it, people sighed, covered their faces, and wept, raising their crosses to their chests and praying towards the rooftops—Abraham had already guessed what it was—a brittle papyrus was slapped before him. On it was a familiar image: a blindfolded goddess of justice, holding scales and a sword. She wore only a thin robe, her graceful curves fully revealed. Sunlight streamed through her long, curly hair, like a halo around a saint's neck.
"Did you draw this?" Mr. Murano asked angrily, his voice trembling. "You despicable Jew, did you draw this?"
The small room fell silent; the noise of prayer and murmurs subsided like the receding tide. Everyone held their breath, awaiting Abraham's answer.
“I drew this,” Abraham said firmly, “but…”
Before he could finish speaking, the crowd stirred again. Women wept, men cursed, and the noise in the room was like a pot of water gradually boiling over—"Let him finish!" the judge in the black robe shouted, "Quiet!"
He clapped his hands with great effort to quiet the entire Murano room. Abraham fell silent—he saw his father standing in the corner like a stranger, watching him coldly. But he thought, he had done nothing wrong.
“Bianca asked me to paint this!” he declared clearly, using the loudest voice he could muster to prove his innocence and validate the judge’s impartiality. “She paid me, and I painted for her! I am innocent; I have no affair with her whatsoever!”
Everyone in the room roared again, but the atmosphere was different from before—Abraham thought, as if a pride of hungry lions were about to pounce, but their prey was struggling to drive them away. The pride was becoming angry from hunger, and greedy from lewdness. But I am not their prey, Abraham clenched his fists. I cannot be their prey.
"Where was this painting painted?" the judge asked. "You could only have painted it after seeing her naked body."
“I am very familiar with the human body; I don’t need to see her naked,” Abraham said. “My father was a doctor…”
“Don’t call me father,” Mr. Moxey interrupted him. “I forbade you to paint, and today is your retribution for your rebellion. Since you refuse to obey me, why do you still call me father?”
Abraham's gaze swept over his father through a tuft of orange, lion-mane-like hair—from this moment on, he would never again call this cruel Mr. Moshe his father. He wondered, had he ever trusted him even once, ever stood by his side? How could this foolish, arrogant man be fit to be a father?
"Why did you paint Bianca Murano like this?" the judge frowned and asked again. "Do you know how much damage this has done to her reputation?"
"Who is damaging her reputation? Who put this painting out for people to see and used foul language?" Abraham shouted in his defense. "Ancient Greek sculptures were not fully clothed, but who criticized Myron and Leocares for that, or thought the statues of Athena and Diana were indecent?"
"Arrogant and filthy Jew!" someone shouted, pointing at his face. "How dare you compare yourself to a real artist!"
“If I cannot be compared with true artists, then is Themis not worthy to be compared with Athena and Diana?” Abraham argued more and more vehemently. “Is praising the goddess of justice a form of slander and blasphemy?”
"It's clearly your lust that's causing this, but you stubbornly refuse to admit it!"
"If you think the body of the Goddess of Justice can arouse your lust, then you should see who is indulging in lust!"
A long-suppressed resentment finally burst forth with these words, filling him with pride and a sense of justice—Abraham thought, the scales of justice had weighed the truth, and no one could sway it. He felt like a sheep being torn apart by a pride of lions, yet he had grown horns and refused to submit. Even if he were swallowed whole, he would cut their mouths open! Just as the debate raged, the bearded Latin doctor entered through the back door. "Quiet!" the judge in his black robes shouted again, "The doctor's results are in!"
What was the result? Abraham glanced sideways at the bearded man.
"My test results are..." The doctor held a small, long-handled mirror and a large pair of tweezers in his hands.
Bianca Murano is still a virgin.
"What?"
Abraham finally understood the doctor's purpose in coming here—the truth made him feel nauseous and suffocated. He thought that his eloquent arguments had been utterly worthless and meaningless; all the "people" in this room only cared about whether the thing between Bianca's legs was intact and could still fetch a good price. Art, truth, love—who had ever truly understood these things? To them, the beautiful and dignified maiden was merely a pretty, clean womb, nothing more. Pure and free thoughts, discussions of beauty and justice—what did beasts care about these things?
But Abraham thought that he had at least upheld his innocence, and that the scales of justice had not tipped in his favor. The Muranos wore expressions of joy and celebration, but Abraham believed it was a mask to conceal his disappointment.
He immediately cast an angry and disdainful glance at Mr. Moses—the man who was unworthy of being called a father stood there colder and more inhuman than a marble statue, showing no encouragement for his innocence—but Abraham no longer cared about such things.
“I told you, I’m innocent.” He stood ramrod straight. “You should let me go.”
“No,” the judge said. “According to the law, you did something you shouldn’t have done. This is punishable.”
"A Jew is not permitted to engage in any livelihood in Venice other than medicine. If he is to do business, he is not permitted to engage in any business other than lending money. If Bianca Murano purchased this painting from you with money, whether you are the artist or not, you have broken the law and should be punished."
"Considering that you are still a minor and this is your first offense, you will not be deported. I will only order the Moshi family to pay half of the total value of their property to the Murano family. You should be glad about this, Abraham. You have been spared the punishment of castration."
The Muranos in the room erupted in a clamor once more. “How could you let him go like this?” Mr. Murano clutched the wide sleeves of his black robe, tears streaming down his face. “My daughter has suffered so much, all because of this Jewish man’s painting!”
“Your daughter has suffered no loss whatsoever! Don’t forget why you sought me out in the dead of night!” The judge shoved him aside. “If you question my impartiality, take this matter to the Doge’s Palace. Then your daughter will truly suffer a loss! And you, Abraham.” He then turned to another party involved. “Listen, if you are discovered drawing these things again, there will be no room for negotiation; you must leave Venice immediately. Do you understand?”
Abraham stood in the room, his legs trembling uncontrollably.
He had held firm to his convictions in this murky and terrifying place, enduring accusations and betrayal, bearing insults and doubts, refusing to yield. But now, hearing these words from the stern judge, he finally felt a sharp, aching pain in his heart. He saw the judge pulling Mr. Mosi and Mr. Murano aside to discuss the amount, the two fathers looking as if they were painfully selling something inviolable. This scene was unbearable for him.
"I will leave Venice," he thought, this would be the last time he called out to his father. "If I leave, Father won't have to pay compensation, right?"
The gondola driver carried him to the Slavic bank. It was so close to St. Mark's Square, where the bell-ringer on the bell tower swung the rope, the deafening sound waking the rising sun and the bustling city. Large numbers of merchants from Dalmatia gathered there, preparing for the morning market. A small gondola, sailing among large ships on long voyages, felt as if surrounded by an impenetrable wall, making it hard to breathe.
“Stop here.” Abraham took money out of his pocket and gave it to the boatman.
“Take the governor’s official documents,” said the judge in black robes. “These will come in handy if you are going to Constantinople.”
Abraham accepted the parchment and carefully placed it in his pouch. He shook the judge's hand, wanting to thank him, yet unwilling to tarnish this gift of justice. He thought this might be the last gift his great homeland, his prosperous republic, could leave him.
He looked at Mr. Moses, who sat silently at the stern of the gondola. The Jew kept his lips tightly pressed together, refusing to say a word to him, as if the man standing on the dock was not his son, but a complete stranger. His serious, troubled face seemed to have aged ten years in an instant—Abraham thought with a sense of relief. He didn't care, and there was no need to say goodbye to this man. This was his own choice, and he had a clear conscience before everyone, the young Abraham firmly believed.
So he turned and left, boarding a merchant ship with a double-headed eagle emblem, never looking back at the tiny, drifting gondola, and bidding farewell to the blind goddess of justice who held scales and blades.
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